


the voice from the stars

by foxglovebrew, prouvairing



Series: when your war is over [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fix-It, Getting Together, Gratuitous Star Trek References, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Series, S8? I don't know her, background allurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 11:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17243339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxglovebrew/pseuds/foxglovebrew, https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: A year after war ends, Keith and Shiro take to the stars.He swipes at the screen to open the notification, in case it’s something urgent. Iverson doesn’t even look up at that, used to it.He sees what it is. He freezes.A ping from a spacecraft—a Galra spacecraft. A new model named Viper 235, the call sign an unmistakable Black Paladin 2.It’s followed by a message from Black Paladin 2 to his personal inbox.HEY, OLD TIMER.





	the voice from the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Needless to say, I paused all other projects after Season 8 to write this fix-it in a rush. It got _way_ away from me, and is now about 10k longer than planned. 
> 
> This is another Epilogue What Epilogue, Sheith go on space adventures after the war fic. I'm sure it's been done before, but I had a _need_.
> 
> A shoutout to my dearest friend Nur, whose support makes me write a lot quicker than I otherwise would, to Léo who provided a quick beta, and to Rowan who doesn't even watch Voltron but sticks with me ranting about it anyway. The space IKEA joke is for you.

"i just want to go home" said the astronaut.

"so come home" said ground control.

‘‘ｓｏ ｃｏｍｅ ｈｏｍｅ’’ said the voice from the stars. 

([Jonny Sun @jonnysun 4:50 PM - 1 Oct 2014](https://twitter.com/jonnysun/status/517461703630794752))

 

“And how’s Allura?”

Shiro’s legs are stretched out underneath his desk, and he’s toying with a pen. He’s trying to see if he can do tricks with it without it snapping in his prosthetic’s huge fingers.

Lance has tanned a healthy dark brown in the sun, and his smile is big in the viewscreen.

“Well, she still refuses to be anywhere near the milking of cows,” Lance says. He laughs. “So I don’t know that farm life is going to be a long term thing for us.”

 “There’s always intergalactic diplomacy,” Shiro says, listing just one of the many options that have been making war in his brain for… a year, just about. A year since the end of the war. “I hear it’s all the rage these days.”

Lance laughs again. “Right, well. We already spend half the year on Altea, so I think that’s enough diplomacy for us.”

It’s odd and wonderful to hear Lance speak like that. It’s all _we_ and _us._

Shiro doesn’t know anybody in the world who deserves that certainty more. Not after all those days Lance sat at Allura’s bedside, wishing for her to wake.

It’s an ache Shiro knows well. Watching Lance, in those days, was like watching a mirror of himself after the battle with Sendak. Sitting there, waiting for Keith to open his eyes.

That seems like a lifetime ago, now.

 _It’s only been a year._ It’s what he tells himself. _There’s all the time in the world._

“Well, we’re heading out to you first—good ol’ intercontinental flight. Crazy how that seems so weird now, huh? Can you imagine getting Allura through customs at the airport? By the way, Hunk says he’s coming ‘round the solar system for the party too. You hear anything from Mullet?”

Shiro rolls his eyes, though there’s too much fondness in Lance’s tone to really take the nickname as an insult.

“Keith’s gonna come around when he comes around.”

He’s proud of the steady way that comes out. Like he really is at peace with it—Keith dipping in and out of their lives, a star blinking, there and then gone.

Lance’s eyes do this weird thing now. They go all soft and concerned. When he was a more self-absorbed teen, Shiro could count on him to be oblivious.

Not so much anymore.

“He wouldn’t miss it,” Lance says. “He’ll be around. I’ve sent him, like, ten reminders. It’s our first anniversary. He can’t _miss_ it.”

It’s not always that easy, Shiro wants to say. Sometimes Keith’s out of range of communications. Sometimes space travel isn’t predictable. They don’t all have wormholes these days. Keith could very well _mean_ to come and find himself embroiled in a peace-keeping mission or other.

He sends messages when he can. Shiro reads them like a man starved. He knows Keith isn’t very good at correspondence, and yet it’s clear he’s making an effort. His accounts are kind of stilted, like he’s pulling words out like teeth, but there’s a sweet earnestness there that makes Shiro’s heart hurt.

He finds himself filled with a strange mix of pride, hurt, and longing.

Once upon a time, he’d feared he wouldn’t get to see whatever great thing Keith would become. Once upon a time, he’d anticipated being grounded, away from the stars.

And now here it is. It was a long time coming. He just expected that it would be his body betraying him.

_It’s only been a year._

That’s meant to be a comfort. It isn’t.

*

“And when you have time I've sent you the minutes from yesterday's meeting, if you want to review them before they're sent around. Ina looked them over, though, so they should be accurate. Though you know she doesn't mince her words so if you want you give them a… _diplomacy review_ , that's up to you. Then we have a review of the new wormhole stabilizer upgrades and a few requests from the crew you should approve. Curtis put in for leave.”

“Who?” Shiro asks, absent-minded.

Veronica, whose efficient walking-and-talking has not wavered for the past ten minutes, even in the face of Shiro's questions, stops.

“Curtis. You know him,” she says. Her tone is mild but vaguely judgmental. This is exactly why she’s Shiro’s first officer—she does _not_ go easy on him.

“Right,” Shiro says. He stops in front of the door of their meeting room. “Right. Of course.”

And he does—he knows the names of all crew members, and their faces, and whether they lost loved ones during the war. Although that has gotten harder to keep all in his head as the crew has expanded.

A part of Shiro wants to say, _we haven't been off planet in a year. Are we really a crew still?_

While the new mission is in the works, the Atlas crew has been spearheading Earth rebuilding and diplomatic relations with aliens—Extraterrestrial Coalition Citizens is the proper term now—still remaining on Earth. All while training a new generation of pilots and engineers.

It's good work. It should be enough.

Veronica tilts her head and squints at him over the rim of her glasses.

“Respectfully, sir, maybe you're the one who needs to book some leave.”

Shiro huffs a laugh.

He can just picture it. Two excruciating weeks on his couch in his empty officer’s quarters watching Star Trek reruns. Never far enough away that if an emergency arises he won't be reachable. The Holts still on duty and unable to hang out or do anything really fun. Keith and Hunk off-planet. Lance and Allura in Cuba living their bucolic daydream before heading back to Altea.

“No, thank you,” Shiro says, offering up a smile as he holds the door open for Veronica.

He doesn't miss the way she glares at him as they walk in and take their seats.

Sam Holt is at his right and offers him a smile when Shiro takes his seat. Shiro smiles back, both relieved to have Sam there and oddly thrown off, even after all this time.

There isn't a meeting that goes by without him turning around and expecting someone else to be seated at his right.

Sometimes he turns already anticipating the rise of a dark eyebrow, a speaking look of those dark eyes. Keith’s mouth pursed eloquently and talking to Shiro without words.

“Shall we begin?” Admiral Iverson says, from the top of the table.

A dispute between Olkari and Puigians stationed in the base. The upgrades to the wormhole stabilizers Veronica told him about already. The year-end financial review. The exam results from the new crop of cadets.

Shiro pays attention. Goes through the motions.

Then his datapad pings.

He swipes at the screen to open the notification, in case it’s something urgent. Iverson doesn’t even look up at that, used to it.

He sees what it is. He freezes.

A ping from a spacecraft—a Galra spacecraft. A new model named Viper 235, the call sign an unmistakable _Black Paladin 2_.

It’s followed by a message from _Black Paladin 2_ to his personal inbox.

_HEY, OLD TIMER._

“Oh,” Shiro says. The conversation goes quiet around him.

“Yes, Captain Shirogane?” Iverson sounds put-upon. Gruff and pointed. When he was a junior officer, it would have made Shiro’s ears go pink.

“I’ve received a ping from the Black Paladin,” Shiro explains smoothly. It’s only too convenient that the thing that has his heart pounding and his attention divided is also a significant event. He can be spared for it. “He appears to be in orbit.”

Iverson sighs. Like he knows.

Shiro stands. “You must excuse me—it seems to be urgent.”

Iverson doesn’t say that it’s likely _not_ urgent at all. But a Paladin’s arrival is still of sufficient high priority that Shiro doesn’t even have to explain himself any further.

*

Shiro doesn’t run, but it’s a close thing. He meets Keith out in the hangar. His Viper has just landed and gone through all the usual checks.

Shiro’s breath is only slightly labored when he gets there, watching the ground crew already crowd around the Viper and start unloading cargo.

One of them—his name’s García, Shiro remembers—nods at him, and offers a salute.

“Captain,” he says.

The rest of the ground crew offer similar, no-nonsense greetings, and go about their business quickly and efficiently. Shiro balks at having an audience for a minute only.

Then the cockpit opens, and Keith appears.

He’s wearing his Blade suit, though his hood is down and his face uncovered. He looks good in it. He’s always looked good in it. His hair is even longer than when Shiro last saw him. He could start tying it back, he realizes. He has a very brief vision of Keith, his hair long enough to braid like Kolivan’s.

Then Keith sees him, and his face lights up. Shiro is helpless not to smile right back.

“Hey, hotshot,” he calls up, and Keith laughs.

It’s a little pathetic how much he missed that sound. How much it makes him feel like a weight has come off his shoulders.

Keith jumps down, and in two strides he’s close enough to touch. He doesn’t even hesitate—he flings his arms around Shiro’s shoulders and laughs straight into his ear.

Shiro doesn’t really care what it looks like—it’s not like the entire Garrison doesn’t know he and Keith are close. Were paladins together. Went to hell and back together.

He wraps both his arms around Keith and squeezes him tight.

They let go too soon—soon enough to be unremarkable. Just two old friends, brothers in arms, who haven’t seen each other in too long.

Shiro feels every point of contact on his body, everywhere Keith touched him, tingling like livewire.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his hand still on Keith’s shoulder. “I thought you were only coming down for the anniversary?”

Keith shrugs, though lightly enough that it doesn’t dislodge Shiro’s hand. He’d hate to move it. He can feel the silky ends of Keith’s hair against his knuckles.

“Our last run wrapped up early,” he says, smiling a cheeky grin. “The next mission lined up would have taken me _way_ past the anniversary. It was deep space. I couldn’t take it _and_ make it, so I decided to leave early. Have a holiday.”

He says it simply, like it’s no big deal. Just put a pause on war relief efforts and completely over-hauling the entire government of Daibazaal.

He smiles at Keith, and squeezes his shoulder. “Well, it’s good to have you back.”

Keith’s smile only widens. “It’s good to be back.”

*

He and Keith get interrupted as they’re walking up a hallway on the way to the cafeteria to get Keith something to eat. Shiro may or may not have skipped lunch, too, though he doesn’t tell Keith this.

Keith’s raised eyebrow and grin tell him he’s not being as slick as he thinks he is.

He tucks his hands behind his back in faux innocence, looks at Keith with wide eyes, and gets himself an eyeroll for his trouble. It feels good.

“What?”

Keith snorts and knocks into his side. That feels good too. And even better to push back and make Keith stumble a little.

“Let’s get some fuel in you, Captain,” Keith says, a grin still tucked into the corner of his mouth.

They don’t really get to. Shiro’s datapad starts anxiously chirping just as the cafeteria’s doors are in sight.

Shiro tries to ignore it, but the chirping stops and starts again. Then a message notification ping follows. And another.

Shiro stops in the middle of the hallway, torn. Keith takes a couple of steps forward, then turns around to look at Shiro, as if just noticing Shiro has stopped.

His eyes are understanding, though. Resigned. There’s something a little wistful in them too, and Shiro feels immediately, blisteringly guilty.

Keith smiles. “You gotta go.”

“I—” Shiro’s datapad continues pinging furiously. “Yeah.”

“Go,” Keith says. He closes the distance between them with a step, and punches Shiro’s shoulder lightly. “Get out of here. I’ll save you something, okay?”

Shiro goes. He feels his stomach churn with it, turning his back to Keith, who’s _here_ , who’s looking right at him.

And walking away.

It’s an emergency, something that couldn’t have possibly been solved without him—so they tell him. All throughout it he thinks, _couldn’t it? Did it have to be me?_

_Does it have to be me, every time?_

Crisis averted, he gets pulled into an impromptu meeting, then is corralled by Veronica to finish approving leave, then to survey and approve the latest updates for the Atlas.

It’s past five by the time he gets out of it, and the low blood sugar has his hands shaking faintly, but he promised to meet Keith. Keith is _here_ and Shiro’s spent the last three hours away from him.

 _That’s life_ , he tries to tell himself. People have work to do. Keith has work to do, most of the time—out there in the universe. Life goes on.

But he’s really too hungry and tired to make himself believe it.

He shoots a message to Keith to meet him on the roof.

_HAVE YOU EATEN?_

Shiro sends back a quick negative, too tired to pretend like he doesn’t want Keith to get him food up here. Keith appears at his side soon after, a takeaway box from the cafeteria and a bottle of water in his hands.

The food is not _hot_ , but it’s still warm. The Garrison cafeteria food is the usual hit or miss, but it looks like it was mac and cheese day, and Shiro could weep about that. He starts shoveling food into his mouth instead.

It may be that he was just that hungry, or that Keith brought it up for him, but it’s pretty much the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Keith looks down at him for a long moment, inscrutable. Then he sighs deeply, and his hand brushes against Shiro’s hair. Then he walks towards the edge of the roof, leaning on the railing. It’s late November, the air ever so slightly chillier, though if Shiro thinks about the winters back home, this may as well be a spring day. The sun is already going down, painting the sky red. He wonders, briefly, how many times he’ll get to look at Keith’s outline against the burning sunset.

They don’t say anything. It’s like Keith knows he needs this—quiet, and a hot meal, and an unjudgmental, supportive presence. He watches Keith watch the sunset, memorizes the sharp line of his jaw when he turns to the side—the scar running up his cheek, and the way his hair curls into it.

When he’s done, he leaves the takeaway box on the ground by the wall, and walks up to the railing. He leans his hands on it, feeling the fragile barrier that separates them from the sharp drop down to the ground.

Keith turns towards him, his eyes glowing unnaturally in the twilight.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says. “But you don’t look so good.”

“Wow,” Shiro huffs, attempting a laugh. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

Keith smiles, though it’s a small thing. It recedes almost immediately.

“It’s been a tough couple of months,” Shiro admits, his hand coming up almost unconsciously to rub at the back of his neck. He knows it’s a tell. He knows Keith’s sharp eyes catch it. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I hear the Atlas hasn’t gone out into space in a while,” Keith says. He doesn’t have to say anything else—he doesn’t have to ask, _are you happy with that?_ And, _is this what you want?_

“It hasn’t,” Shiro admits.

It’s hard to explain the complicated web of intergalactic politics that has kept the Atlas grounded for so long. Only a year ago, Shiro had been hopeful that it’d be temporary. Only a year ago, he’d thought the Atlas would be his Enterprise.

But only a couple of months in, Iverson had sat him down and given him the truth.

“We’re looking at two years of negotiations at least,” he’d said. “I’m sorry, Shirogane. We’re not at war anymore. A deep-space mission like this one requires a lot more beaurocracy.”

It makes sense. The Kerberos mission had been three years in the making before Shiro had been drafted in.

“I don’t get it,” Keith says, frowning. “The Atlas is the only ship in the fleet that _doesn’t_ need to wait for stable wormholes to be set up to travel to other systems. She can just create her own.”

Shiro nods. “I know.”

He doesn’t want to rehash the months of arguments and fights and preparations. He doesn’t want to talk about how he feels like he can’t look away, and at the same time like his contribution is entirely superfluous. The machine will not be sped up.

“We just need to—wait,” Shiro sighs. He looks down.

He startles when Keith’s hand comes up, gentle, tracing the dark shadows under his eyes. Shiro knows what he looks like. He looks like he feels—tired. Worn down.

Like the spark he’d felt piloting the Atlas for the first time is getting farther away each day.

Keith looks up at him, his brow furrowed, his dark eyes shining. Shiro has to look away. If he looks any longer, those eyes will flay him alive.

“Shiro,” Keith says. The gentlest kind of torture.

Keith’s hand is not as small as it used to be. He has long, graceful fingers. They rest on Shiro’s jaw, the scratch of the edge of his gloves against Shiro’s skin.

“Shiro, what can I do?”

Keith—always Keith, after everything. Trying to save Shiro again, as if he hasn’t already saved Shiro more times than anyone should ever be asked to.

But Shiro never has to ask. Maybe that’s what makes it so temptingly easy to accept.

He huffs a laugh, a pathetic little thing.

He doesn’t look at Keith, his eyes lowered, when he says, “Take me with you?”

Keith goes still.

Shiro meant it to come out as a joke, but it doesn’t. Somehow, it cuts him open. All of the strange, conflicting feelings, the painful sensation of _wrongness_ that has dogged him for the past year comes spilling out in those four words.

_Take me with you._

Keith holds his breath, and his hand leaves Shiro’s jaw. Shiro doesn’t have time to decide what to think of _that,_ because Keith’s hands clutches the front of his uniform instead.

It pulls tight, a sharp motion that makes Shiro finally look up.

The look in Keith’s eyes is—it makes Shiro’s heart start to pound. Wide-eyed, his brow still furrowed and concerned, and his eyes full of hope.

“Do you mean that?” Keith whispers. “Do you really mean that?”

There is no way to pass it off as a joke now. He’s never been able to lie to Keith, not like this.

“Yeah.” It comes out quiet.

Keith sucks in his breath. His mouth, which had been half open and soft, snaps shut. His jaw clenches and then—he blinks quickly and nods, as if making up his mind.

“Okay,” Keith says.

“Okay?”

Shiro’s heart is making a break for it. He feels hot, and cold, and like his lungs are suddenly too big for his chest.

“Okay.” Keith nods again, sharp. “Go pack. We can be in orbit in a varga or two.”

“I need to—there’s paperwork,” Shiro says.

He needs to resign, or to book extended leave. He needs to get his affairs in order. He needs to interview and appoint a replacement. He needs to wrap up all his projects, and delegate, and—

Suddenly, the weight of it, of trying to leave, squashes him down again.

“No,” Keith says.

Shiro blinks at him, confused. “No?”

“No,” Keith confirms. His hand is still holding onto the front of Shiro’s uniform tightly. He looks up at Shiro with that same look of focused concentration he gets when he leads a mission.

Having that look trained on him is always heady.

“You’re gonna go pack,” Keith says. “Only grab the stuff you need—documents, money, clothes. Leave your key at reception for Veronica, or one of the Holts. I’ll let them know we’re on our way out. Then you come back here, and we go.”

“Just like that?” Shiro whispers.

“Just like that.” Keith’s mouth stretches, finally, that same bright, up-to-no-good grin he used to give Shiro when they snuck out of the Garrison with their hoverbikes. “You gotta run away with me, old timer.”

The words snap something inside Shiro. He’s glad to let it go.

The long year is over.

*

Two vargas in, Veronica’s voice comes through the comms.

“Kogane,” she says. “Any particular reason why you’ve stolen my Captain?”

Keith presses the button, biting his lip, and Veronica’s face fills the screen.

“I’m taking him for a joyride,” Keith says.

Veronica sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay. When are you bringing him back?”

Keith looks at Shiro, then, his eyebrow raised. A question.

Shiro takes a deep breath.

“He’s not,” Shiro says. “Veronica—I need to ask a favor. Remember how we talked about leave?”

*

The shipyard at the new Altean capital is a crowded, loud place. Keith walks ahead of him, making space for him, looking back every once in a while to make sure Shiro hasn’t lost him.

And Shiro does get distracted. Being at the shipyard reminds him of the first few days after the Coalition came to Earth—all the different species mingling, for the first time in history all in the same place. The joyous exchanges, awkward moments, explosive clashes. He’d known he missed it but he hadn’t quite anticipated how much. Is it bad to miss a moment that, however happy, happened in the middle of the war? Is it normal?

Keith reaches back and takes his hand.

“Don’t get lost.”

Shiro follows him from shop to shop and watches him argue in a mix of Galra and translator-aided English. Keith’s Galra gets better every day.

He knows his face is probably doing something moony and ridiculous, but he can’t quite help it.

As they landed, only yesterday, Keith said, “We’re going to need a bigger ship.”

There was something careful in his tone. Hesitant. His face was a mild, pleasantly blank canvas, but Shiro has always known the signs of a nervous Keith. A Keith bracing himself for a blow.

“Well, we can’t live in a Viper,” Shiro said. “How will Kosmo fit?”

Keith’s blank expression had melted into a smile.

“Right,” he said. “To the shipyard, then.”

They went to Altea first, because it’s marginally closer. They took the first wormhole jump out of the solar system and to Altea and Daibazaal’s quadrant.

It took them long enough that the cramped quarters of the Viper have become even more glaringly an issue. The pilot seat collapses into a narrow cot, and the cot is barely enough to contain Shiro, let alone the two of them. There’s only enough storage to get them through two movements, tops.

All more good reasons to get a bigger place.

“This is a _state of the art_ , military Marmora Viper _,_ ” Keith says. “You can do better than that.”

The guy he’s arguing with is an old blue alien with three arms, a shrill voice, and the longest mustache Shiro has ever seen.

“You’re looking for a homesteader, you think _one_ Viper is going to be enough to trade?”

“That Viper’s worth more than half your homesteaders!”

“Maybe we don’t need something as big as a homesteader,” Shiro puts in. Keith looks back at him with a look that clearly says, _let me handle this._

He sighs deeply and turns back to the alien, “We _may_ be willing to settle for a two-bedroom, two-pilot ship.”

Keith and the old alien hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, then the alien looks back at Shiro. He scans him up and down.

“What about your partner’s arm? Is that Altean tech?”

“That’s it,” Keith says, and immediately turns around. “Let’s try the next one.”

Shiro’s unconsciously clutched his robot wrist with his human one, and hastily releases it to follow Keith suit. He can’t say he appreciates being appraised for parts.

They make it halfway to the entrance, dodging old Galra fighters and Olkari transports, when they hear it.

“Wait!”

Keith turns to him and grins.

*

The spaceship is a blend of Olkari and Galra tech, with some more recent Altean mods.

It got traded by the couple who had it—co-pilots—in favor of a bigger ship. They wanted to start a family, the owner tells them, off-hand. It makes Shiro’s chest feel oddly thin.

It’s a beautiful ship. Sleek, elegant lines, all whites and greys—a larger central unit with two thrusters. Shiro isn’t proud of how his heart starts beating faster when he sees them, oddly reminiscent of the Enterprise’s nacelles.

The interior has clearly been lived in. It has a cockpit with a dual piloting system and a large cargo unit, big enough to house a smaller craft or a hoverbike. Separate, a living area which includes the head, the kitchen, a living room, and a bedroom. He can see the small signs of life in it—a few abandoned kitchen appliances, a small entertainment system that clearly got replaced for a better model. A few blankets in a cupboard in the living room.

Keith is bickering with the owner outside—trying to haggle for something else. Shiro is standing on the threshold of the bedroom.

It’s small—narrow and long, with a small desk crammed in an alcove by the door. The bed is up against the far wall, right underneath the viewport. The room is narrow enough that it’s flanked by walls on three sides.

There’s a top sheet on it only, and yet Shiro is suddenly hit with a vivid vision—crawling into that bed, between cool sheets, soft blankets, and a small army of throw pillows. Lying down with the stars winking down at him from the viewport.

Keith is there, lying between Shiro and the door. Right at his side.

“Shiro!” Keith calls, coming through the living area. “I’ve managed to raise it to the ship, the entire contents, and a hoverbike. It’s a bit of a piece of crap hoverbike, but I figure we can have Hunk have a look at it when we pass by—what’s wrong?”

Shiro’s throat has closed up. He turns towards Keith, and finds him looking up, a small worried wrinkle between his brows.

Keith touches his left arm, gentle. “You don’t like it, do you?”

Shiro can’t speak for a moment. He doesn’t have any words for how desperately he wants to live on this ship. With Keith.

He makes do by raising his flesh hand and smoothing the line between Keith’s brows with a thumb.

Keith’s concerned expression fades into fond exasperation. He huffs, and bats at Shiro’s hand.

Shiro catches his hand. He watches Keith’s expression do something complicated. His mouth goes soft, his brows furrow again. He looks up at Shiro through his lashes.

Finally, Shiro says, “It’s perfect.”

Keith looks away, towards the bed. The only bed.

“Yeah?” he asks, and looks up at Shiro again. There’s a small smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. It begs to be touched.

Shiro resists that urge, but cannot resist another. He steps close, and bends down to press a kiss against Keith’s hairline.

“Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t step back. When Keith looks back up at him, Shiro can count each one of his eyelashes. “I love it.”

“Well, good,” Keith says, cheeks pink. “Because I almost had to bargain our firstborn for it.”

*

A home ship needs more things than came with it, incidentally. Keith and Shiro discover this when they try to go through the cupboards.

“We’re missing most kitchen appliances,” Keith says. “Good news, the water recycling system is updated and running.”

“Oh, good,” Shiro says. “We have no bedding.”

The cushions in the seating area in the living room are threadbare, and Shiro doesn’t have a toothbrush.

He emerges from the bedroom to find Keith glaring at the kitchen nook.

“So,” Shiro says. “Up for a trip to space IKEA?”

The look Keith throws him is so indignant and irritated that Shiro is suddenly thrown back to Keith’s first year at the Garrison. Watching that little slip of a cadet glare at him like that.

He laughs, and Keith mutters something under his breath about two-bit comedians. Shiro feels lighter than he has in months.

They shower and change before they leave. The water recycling system _does_ work, and Shiro is more than grateful for it. The pressure isn’t the best, but he thinks, like many things, they can talk to Hunk and Pidge about it when they see them.

He comes out of the shower and pads into the bedroom only to find Keith plucking at the hem of Shiro’s discarded uniform jacket, a pensive look in his eye.

“We can’t keep going around in uniform,” Keith muses. He darts a look at Shiro, out of the corner of his eye, and looks away quickly.

Shiro’s in his uniform trousers, shirtless. He bites back a grin as he comes closer.

“I brought civilian clothing,” he says, catching Keith’s hand. Keith allowed him before, and he allows him now, only a faint pink blush on his cheekbones to show he’s affected.

“Congratulations,” Keith says. “I didn’t.”

It’s strange—it makes Shiro realize he wasn’t the only one to drop things in haste in order to run with this plan.

Keith looks up at him, his cheeks still pink. It’s good to know he wasn’t the only one who wanted it so badly.

Shiro hums, and surveys the clothes he managed to grab before they left. Most of his shirts and jackets are modified to fit the prosthesis, except his t-shirts and tank tops. And possibly—

“I’ve got it!” Shiro says. He also realizes in that moment that he’d been idly playing with Keith’s fingers all the while. He feels his own cheeks heat this time, and it’s just as well that he has to drop Keith’s hand to fish out the jacket.

He brought it for sentimentality more than anything. It was among a few personal effects that the Garrison didn’t get rid of after his ‘death’. It doesn’t quite fit anymore, as he’s grown and bulked up, but Shiro could never quite bring himself to throw it away, or to leave it behind. It was the jacket he wore when he went out with Keith into the desert, kicking up dust and throwing himself off cliffs just to feel what it was like to fly.

Keith recognizes it immediately, as soon as Shiro hands it over. His eyes go wide and he gasps quietly, almost too low for Shiro to hear. His hands are gentle on the jacket, almost reverent.

“I thought they’d thrown this out,” Keith says.

“It won’t fit me anymore,” Shiro says, and purposefully takes a step closer and checks Keith out, head to toe. “But you’ve filled out. It might fit you.”

Shiro’s helpless not to smile at Keith’s bright glare. Keith snorts at him, his cheeks now bright red, and shoves Shiro away. Shiro finds himself laughing again as he’s chased out of the room.

He ends up taking his turn to dress when Keith scurries out of the room with a bundle of borrowed clothing and locks himself in the bathroom. Shiro hears the shower run.

In the end, he wears a simple biker jacket, himself, practical boots and black pants, and doesn’t realize he and Keith are accidentally matching until Keith comes out of the bathroom.

Though by the time he sees Keith, that’s the last thing on his mind.

The pants Keith borrowed are a little baggy, and the tank top peeking underneath the jacket is definitely too loose, offering an unimpeded view of Keith’s collarbones.

But Shiro was right—Keith really does fill out the jacket now.

He’s silent for a beat too long, his gaze trained too low, because when his eyes finally settle on Keith’s face, there’s a knowing smile there.

“Does it look okay?”

Smugness looks entirely too good on Keith. His hair is tied back, and the scar on his cheek only makes him look more roguish. Up to no good.

Shiro’s hand comes up to Keith’s face, and that smile goes soft. He traces the scar on Keith’s cheek with his thumb, and watches Keith’s dark lashes flutter.

“You look good,” he finds himself saying, with little input from his rational brain. “You always do.”

It’s too telling—too close to acknowledging this little dance they’re dancing. This unspoken truth they’re tiptoeing around, and brushing gently against, and never quite touching. It has been so long, Shiro feels hesitant to look at it directly.

He knows he spends too much time looking at Keith, his hand tracing the line of Keith’s jaw—but Keith lets him. He just looks back, with those wide dark eyes, and that small trace of a smile on his mouth.

*

There’s no space IKEA, as it turns out. Only more markets.

This time, Keith defers to him, letting him lead the way and inspect the merchandise. When Shiro asks about it, he shrugs.

“I’m not that good at _this_ part,” Keith mutters. “And we don’t need to haggle. We didn’t have enough GAC for a ship, but we do have enough for house stuff.”

Keith does offer his input when Shiro asks for it, pointing at this or that appliance, or bedsheet, or pillow cover. He seems to gravitate towards jewel tones, which works fine for Shiro. Much as he may be tempted to, he doesn’t buy everything Keith shows even a passing interest in. They won’t live _entirely_ in reds, whites, and blacks.

Only mostly.

By the time they dump all their purchases in the living room, they’re starving, and Shiro’s datapad has about ten thousand messages. Mostly they’re from Garrison people either baffled at his sudden departure or wishing him a good leave. Pidge’s message is a ten-paragraph rant that manages to both question his choices in leaving and judging him for not leaving sooner. Matt just sends him _God, I wish that were me_. It’s followed by a short video of Pidge typing furiously on her datapad.

Allura has sent him a very enthusiastic, _Are you headed to Altea? How long are you staying? We’re back in a phoeb we could come meet you_!, and Coran has invited them to dinner at the castle.

Lance only sent him a string of emoji. Smirk, eyes, eggplant, eggplant, thumbs up.

Shiro closes that one immediately and opens Veronica’s forwarded paperwork instead. His signature has magically appeared at the end of the application, and Admiral Iverson’s signature signs off six months of extended leave for him.

He switches the datapad off. Keith is pretending not to steal glances at him as he fiddles with the entertainment center.

“Hey, are you hungry?” Shiro asks. He doesn’t miss the soft way Keith smiles to himself.

They take Coran up on his dinner offer, which is both the most unadulterated fun Shiro’s had in a while, and also, probably, a terrible idea.

It starts very innocently, with Coran meeting them outside the castle and delivering back-slapping hugs.

“Gentlemen, a pleasure as usual,” he says, then claps his hands and starts rubbing them. “Let me introduce you to the finer culinary delights of the New Altean Capital.”

Shiro had expected to be taken inside the castle, eat in one of the many, many, dining rooms. But Coran takes them out,instead, wearing a truly improbable disguise. It involves a cape, and a pair of threateningly pointy sunglasses, and neon boots.

“I’m very well-known in the city,” Coran. “A celebrity, if you will! We don’t want to be mobbed for autographs.”

Shiro feels a pang of worry, for a moment, but it turns out to be unfounded. Most people remember him from the Voltron Show, and he looks nothing like his counterpart now.

Coran takes them to a lively food market in the middle of the city. A thousand different races intermingle in the narrow streets, and a thousand delicious and not-so-delicious smells vie for his attention. Coran is a bright head of orange hair in front of them, leading the way.

Keith sticks close to his side, and when he gets jostled he glares hotly and presses himself against Shiro’s side.

Almost without his notice, he finds himself with an arm wrapped around Keith’s shoulders, leading him through the crowd.

The day has been almost like a dream. This—the bright, colorful, noisy alien market is something Shiro might have dreamt up when he was twelve years old and lit up blue by the light of his then-computer, wide-eyed.

Coran shoves half a dozen colorful alien dishes at them—each—and leads them to a bustling seating area, where they manage to snatch a seat.

Shiro has no idea what half of the things he puts in his mouth are. Most of them are delicious, and some he shoves aside for Keith to try instead. Oddly, some of the more… _questionable_ ones are the ones Keith seems to enjoy the most.

“It must be your Galra tastebuds!” Coran says. “Had you never noticed?”

“Well,” Shiro starts, and can _feel_ the way Keith’s glare drills a hole into his temple. “There was that time with the peppermint and cinnamon milkshake…”

Keith explodes, “You wouldn’t even _try_ it!”

“Or that time you put Sriracha on your peanut butter and jelly.”

“It needed some heat!”

“I’m just _saying,_ ” Shiro says, and peaceably grabs another bite of something green, grilled, with tentacles. He gets what’s coming to him when the acidic aftertaste of it makes him choke.

Coran slides a glass of nunvill towards him. “That’ll knock it back for you.”

It’s a terrible idea—nunvill goes straight to Shiro’s head and makes him flush _immediately_. Keith, on the other hand, has never gotten flushed or anything more than tipsy, not in Shiro’s memory at least. It’s a little unfair.

Keith reaches for the nunvill himself, but Coran slides it away.

“Oh, no!” he says, and pulls out a mean-looking flask of something purple. “No unfair advantages.”

Keith grimaces and looks suddenly guilty. Shiro squints at the purple bottle and gives it a sniff. Even the smell makes his eyes water.

“This is some of the finest Galra Gut Twister, straight from Daibazaal,” Coran says, with a wink. “Don’t touch it, Shiro.”

Shiro nods and slides the bottle towards Keith, who looks _very_ sheepish now.

“Wouldn’t want my guts twisted, would I?” Shiro says, and keeps his eyes on Keith until he takes a swig.

For the first time, he watches alcohol have a physical effect on Keith. His nose scrunches, and he shudders a little. His cheeks go suddenly pink.

Shiro is absolutely delighted.

Three shots each of their own beverage of choice, and Shiro feels loose-limbed and like all the world is pleasantly fuzzy. Keith is listing against his shoulder as he rants _very_ loudly about a peacekeeping mission to an alien planet.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” he yells, slamming his palm on the table. “Why are _we_ the only ones who have to put in an effort and bend over backwards? Why am _I_ expected to learn the exact sequence in which to shake each of a Tedruk’s hands—and they have _eight_!—and _they_ can’t even remember that we _can’t_ _walk through walls?_ ”

Shiro giggles into his shoulder. Coran’s doubled over the table and wheezing.

“Of _course_ it’s important to be sensitive and respectful of other cultures, but like—can’t it go both ways? I need _doors_.”

Everything is _so_ funny, and Keith is _so_ handsome, flushed and grinning when he catches Shiro’s eye. Shiro keeps chuckling until he can’t breathe.

Altea’s sun has gone down, and the glittering lights of the market make his head spin. They deliver a singing, stumbling Coran back to the castle in one piece, and then make their way back to their shipyard hanging off each other and listing sideways a little _._ Only a little.

Shiro can’t remember the last time he let go like this. His body feels loose and flushed, his blood pumping, his lungs taking in the alien air and smells and sounds. Keith is warm and unsteady under his arm, and he says something into Shiro’s ear, his breath warm against his skin. Shiro laughs, because it seems like the thing to do, and everything is brilliant and easy and their ship has appeared around the corner.

As Keith presses his palm to the keypad where they recorded both their biometrics, Shiro says, “I _love_ this ship. I love it. We should name it.”

Keith flicks on all the lights in the living area, and turns toward him. His cheeks are splotchy red and his eyes are glassy. The sclera has gone yellow, the pupils vertical slits. Shiro stops for a beat and looks at him.

“What should we name it?”

Shiro takes a moment to reply. He wants to press his mouth against Keith’s mouth, and feel the edges of Keith’s teeth with his tongue to see if they’re sharp. Fortunately Keith only snickers at him and takes it as him being drunk and easily distracted.

“I don’t know,” Shiro says. “Something _good._ ”

Keith snorts, and turns back to head towards the entertainment system.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and then bends over under the flat screen and starts rummaging. Shiro loses a good few minutes leaning against the back of a couch and staring at Keith’s ass.

“Done!” Keith says, and straightens too quickly. He wavers, and Shiro is already halfway through reaching out to steady him, but he manages to right himself.

He turns around and props his hands on his hips and beams at Shiro. His hair’s a little mussed and coming out of its tie in wisps, his jacket tossed aside and the tank top baring his arms. He’s adorable.

“Do you know,” Keith starts, oddly solemn. “What the upside of having a ship that’s _not_ a sentient ageless entity is?”

“Apart from the privacy?”

“ _Apart_ from the privacy,” Keith agrees, one of his hands coming up to point at Shiro like, _that’s right, good one._

Shiro finds himself grinning despite himself. “I don’t know, what?”

Keith smiles back, and he just looks so smug and proud of himself Shiro has to tighten his hands on the back of the couch to stop himself from reaching out.

“Computer,” Keith says. “Play music.”

Something fast, with lots of drums and guitars comes on, drowning out the sound of Shiro’s laughter. The vocalist yodels angrily in a high, shill voice.

“You can’t play _that_ in the lions!”

Keith’s bobbing along with it already, coming around to Shiro’s side of the couch to pull at his hands and make him dance along.

At this point, Shiro is too lost to deny him, but also too ungraceful to make a good show of it. And he’s never been the greatest dancer—only just good enough to follow a beat and dance with someone in a crowded club.

He doesn’t need moves for this, though. He just grabs Keith’s hips and holds on, lets the beat and the sound of Keith’s laughter guide his movements. He swings Keith around a few times, and gets himself a mouthful of dark hair for his trouble.

It’s wonderful, and a little dizzying. He feels silly, and happy, and drunk on the feeling of being _able_ to feel those things.

When the song ends, fading into something slower and quieter, Keith pulls back from his shoulder and looks up at him with his bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

“We’re _not_ naming the ship the Enterprise,” Keith says, jabbing his finger firmly into Shiro’s chest. He gets a little distracted, then, and jabs him a few more times then… oh. Just lays his palm there and _feels._

Shiro catches Keith’s hand before they both embarrass themselves.

“Of course not,” he says. “There’s only _one_ silver lady.”

Keith snorts, and sways a little closer.

“Besides,” Shiro continues, trying to hide the way his breath catches at Keith’s proximity. “This is more of a Millennium Falcon, size-wise. Now, the _Atlas_ is a Constitution Class starship alright.”

“You know, it’s kind of scary that I know what that means now,” Keith says. “Only via osmosis through _you._ ” He pats Shiro’s chest gently again. “You’re such a nerd.”

“And you’re stuck with me now,” Shiro says, ducking close and whispering it like a secret.

Keith hums and nudges closer, until his head is resting against Shiro’s chest. His long fingers curl against Shiro’s chest, and Shiro can’t help but reach for them.

Keith lets him hold his hand again. His fingers are smooth and cool, and fit in between Shiro’s so easily. Keith is silent for a long moment, and Shiro could believe he’d fallen asleep if not for the way he’s still leading them in sways around the room.

“I miss you.”

The words are whispered against Shiro’s neck, Keith’s breath puffing warm and damp against his skin. He can feel Keith’s lips brushing against it, too. The smallest touch lighting up every nerve ending.

“I’m right here,” Shiro whispers against Keith’s hair.

Keith shakes his head. His voice is a little thick when he says, “I miss you all the time.”

Shiro’s throat is tight, and he finds he can’t speak. He sucks in a deep breath, letting it out in a shudder.

“I miss you, too,” he says. He kisses Keith’s hair, hides his face there. “All the time.”

“I’m tired,” Keith says. He keeps his face hidden in Shiro’s neck. “I don’t want to have to miss you anymore.”

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut. Takes another deep breath and feels that same feeling boring a hole in his chest every day. The long, weary feeling of always wanting something a little out of reach.

He used to tell himself there was a reason why he lived this way, a reason why things were the way they were. He wanted to go into space, to follow his dreams before they were taken from him. Then he had a war to fight.

But the war is over, and he’s not following his dreams anymore. What’s the point of a life that breaks his heart, then?

“Okay,” he says. He ducks to hide the words in the soft hair at Keith’s temple. “What if I never leave you again, then? How about that?”

It’s an easy thing to promise, a little drunk, a little heartsick, happier than he’s been in years. It’s so easy.

 Keith finally pulls away, only far enough to look up at Shiro with those starlight eyes.

He puts a hand against Shiro’s jaw, gently, and nods. “Okay.”

*

Keith looks up at him from the other side of the bed. The starlight from the viewport reflects in his eyes so faintly. It’s almost exactly like Shiro imagined it would be—the bed fit neatly underneath the viewport, encased by the narrow walls of the room, the soft duvet and pillows and sheets in whites and reds, the soft half-glow of the adjustable lights fitted in the floor.

Even in his daydreams, though, he can never get Keith quite right. The way the light catches his eyes, or the way his dark hair curls over his neck, or the way he makes Shiro catch his breath.

He’s not really drunk anymore. Only tired, and a little fragile from the come-down. Keith’s flush has faded, too, and his eyes are clear. Shiro watched it come over him, a somber, calm veil over his previous silliness and sudden melancholy.

It’s peaceful. Lying here in the aftermath of all that, Keith close to his side. Safe. He can imagine doing this over and over and over.

“Six months is a long time,” Keith says, breaking the silence. He scoots a little closer, the heat of him against Shiro’s side. “I’m surprised they gave it to you.”

Shiro shrugs, and if it brings him close enough that Keith’s chest is pressed against his arm, all the better.

“I had a lot of unused holiday,” he says, and turns his head to grin at Keith. “And a lot of unused savior-of-the-universe points.”

A huff of laughter leaves Keith’s mouth, and dies quickly. His smile lingers a little, faint and lovely, and then fades too.

“What happens after? When the six months are up?”

And here is the crux of the matter—one of the many things they haven’t talked about. Not the only thing, but intimately tied to all the others. To the wild, reckless promise he made Keith not ten minutes ago.

Shiro turns on his side, facing Keith.

“I don’t know,” he answers, candid. Then, taking a breath, gathering courage, “All I know is that what I want right now is to be here with you.”

Keith’s eyes don’t waver, though Shiro sees his lip tremble, as if he wants to say something.

Shiro continues, before he can. He puts into words what he hadn’t quite been able to articulate before.

 “I don’t know if we’ll want to keep going in six months. If we’re going to have to go do our own thing and be apart for a while. What I do know is that—even if we do have to split up, at the end of this, I’ll still want to be with you. Wherever you are, I’ll always—”

He hesitates here, and he sees the way Keith realizes what he’s about to say, because his breath catches and his eyes go wide.

If he says this, there is no going back to pretending they’re not doing this. No more dancing around it. No more ambiguity.

The words have been begging to burst out of him since he woke up from his half-death.

“I’ll always love you, Keith.”

Keith’s eyes search his face, his soft mouth parted, no sound coming out.

His hand comes, instead, brushing against Shiro’s jaw. It’s shaking.

Shiro’s hand rests on Keith’s hip, where his too-big shirt rides up and bares soft skin. The prosthetic palm is wide enough to encompass it whole. Keith’s lashes flutter.

When he looks up again, there is that stubborn curl to his mouth, that determined wrinkle between his eyebrows.

He whispers Shiro’s name. Then, “Kiss me?”

They tip over the line they’d been toeing with a sigh of relief.

Keith’s hand on his jaw draws him in gently, and Keith’s breath fans against his mouth, and then they’re kissing. Keith’s mouth is warm, soft, a little chapped. A little wet where it closes around Shiro’s bottom lip.

He wants to sear every detail of this into his mind. The first time he kisses Keith, in their bed, in their home ship. But it’s so easy to lose himself in it, to forget space and time even exist.

Keith makes a small, needy noise, and opens his mouth. Shiro’s hand tightens around his hip, draws him closer, presses Keith against his body, warm and hard and eager.

They part just enough to catch their breath, and then Keith’s chasing him again. The soft, tentative kisses turn harder, more desperate. Keith’s teeth are sharper than they look, and the sting of them when he bites Shiro’s jaw sends shivers running down his spine. He ducks into the crook of Keith’s neck in turn, and finds the soft, warm skin there, Keith’s pulse fluttering against his lips.

His hand, his metal hand, pushes Keith’s shirt up and it’s—good, it’s great, but it’s not quite like his human hand’s touch. Keith makes another sharp sound against his ear, though, and Siro touches him again, to make him make that sound again.

He pulls away only briefly to look Keith, and says, “Is this okay?”

Keith—flushed and panting even in the night’s half-light, his lips swollen and kissable—says, “What?”

“It’s not too fast?”

“ _Shiro._ ” Keith’s voice is so full of fond frustration it makes Shiro grin. “I’ve been in love with you for _ages._ Don’t _stop._ ”

Shiro doesn’t know what to do—he wants to laugh, and cry, and kiss Keith until they’re both incoherent with it. He goes for the third option, pulling Keith against him again and kissing him, firm and enthusiastic.

When they next part, Keith says, “Unless—unless it’s too fast for _you_ , then—oh, _Christ_.”

Shiro finds Keith’s neck again, nosing at the warm place just underneath his ear, and then biting down. The sound Keith makes is heaven.

He presses one fleeting kiss against the reddened skin, and says, “No. Don’t stop.”

It’s artless, the first time. He rolls Keith onto his back, and Keith goes easy, opening up to him. His legs cradle Shiro’s hips, and hold him there.

He starts out careful, holding himself up not to crush Keith, raining kisses down on his cheeks until Keith grabs him by the hair and pulls him in with a growl. His legs wrap around Shiro’s and pull him closer until they’re pressed against each other, and Shiro can feel the length of Keith’s cock, hard and wanting.

His human hand can finally sneak under Keith’s shirt and feel warm skin, trace the edges of scars. Keith arches into him, beautiful and restless.

They rock against each other like this, and as embarrassing as it is, Shiro realizes they’re not gonna need much else at all. It’s been too long. Keith has too strong an effect on him.

Keith’s mouth is parted, panting right against Shiro’s mouth, and his hand flails out to meet Shiro’s. Shiro presses it into the mattress, right above their heads. Keith moans.

He has Shiro’s name on his lips when he comes.

Afterwards, Keith pushes him around until he’s on his back again, and lies on top of him, head pillowed on his chest. Keith’s not _small_ anymore, so it does impede his breathing a little. Shiro is not complaining.

His fingers find the soft, warm hair at the nape of Keith’s neck almost on instinct. It is as silky as ever, running through his fingers. Keith makes quiet, satisfied noises whenever Shiro’s nails scratch his scalp.

His mouth pressed against Keith’s hair, breathing in the scent of his soap, his eyes fixed on the view of stars out of the viewport—Shiro is home.

They lie there in the half-dark, sweat cooling and heartbeats slowing down into drowsiness. Keith stirs against his chest, his head still turned away, his eyes lost in the distance. Pensive. Shiro senses something is coming, but for once he’s not afraid. He only kisses Keith again, this time on his forehead, and waits.

“I keep having dreams,” Keith says, soft and quiet.

Shiro nods, knowing Keith feels it where they’re pressed together. He only makes a low, inquisitive sound.

Keith doesn’t speak for a long beat, but Shiro knows it is almost always best to leave him the space to gather his thoughts.

“Sometimes it’s things that have happened.” He doesn’t need to explain more than that. Shiro’s fingers tighten in his hair, and Keith answers by turning his head to kiss his chest. “Sometimes—things that might have happened. Or could still happen. It was all the same, on the space whale, sometimes I just—I can’t tell what’s a dream until I wake up.”

The ship hums quietly, a steady, soothing sound. Shiro’s fingers continue their rhythmic motion, although there’s something a little like dread now, low in his belly.

“Sometimes you’re right there beside me, after—well, _after_. And you just won’t _look_ at me,” Keith continues, a hoarse whisper. “And when I talk to you it’s like I can’t raise my voice above a whisper. You just won’t hear me.”

Shiro’s hands are still now. His throat constricted. He’s had a dream a lot like that too. In his dream, he’s a ghost, trapped in the endless void.

“It’s just a dream,” Keith says. Under his breath, like something he’s told himself more than once.

Shiro looks at the stars outside their viewport. There’s no way to run away from _this._ He can put Keith in a ship and run into the stars with him, but they’ll always bring all of _this_ with them.

“Keith.” He speaks the words right into Keith’s temple, into the stray black locks there. “What can I do?”

Keith looks up at him. His hand traces a tentative pattern up Shiro’s shoulder, then along the line of Shiro’s jaw. His thumb draws down Shiro’s nose, feeling the smooth scarred skin and then smoothing his brow.

“Keep looking at me like that,” Keith says.

Shiro, who doesn’t know how to _stop_ looking at Keith, thinks he definitely got the better end of this bargain.

He doesn’t say anything. He just tips Keith’s chin up, and Keith rises on his elbows, and Shiro kisses him. Once started, he can hardly stop. He can feel Keith’s smile against his mouth, the tension draining out of him, and the way he melts when Shiro’s tongue traces his bottom lip and begs to be let inside.

Keith lets him. He gives Shiro everything.

*

After the second time, Keith above him flushed and lovely and taking what he wants, they lie there a little while talking. Just talking, about star maps and faraway worlds they might want to see again. Little spats and arguments and inside jokes long buried, resurfacing. He digs his fingers into Keith’s side and makes him squirm and laugh.

Then Keith’s eyes go a little mischievous, and he says, “Want to see what else I’ve rigged up in here?”

“More old punk music?” Shiro replies.

“Better,” Keith says, his smile small and excited. The same slightly-smug smile he used to give Shiro over his shoulder while they raced, his hair in his eyes and the light at his back.

He sits up and leans over the side of the bed to get at his bag, offering Shiro an unimpeded view of his naked back and the shifting muscles in it. Shiro is helpless not to reach out and touch him, fingers tracing down to the dimples on his lower back.

“ _Behave,_ ” Keith hisses, and then re-emerges with his hair mussed and his cheeks red. “Okay, the hard-drive just needs to interface with the entertainment system’s network and...”

He rises from the bed, on his knees, the sheets falling away from him and giving Shiro an even better view. Kneeling up at the end of the bed, he’s out of reach of Shiro’s human hand. That’s what a little extra reach is for.

Keith fiddles with a panel high on the wall opposite the pillows, and makes a weak attempt to bat away the bionic hand pawing at him.

“God, who knew you’d be _handsy_ ,” he mutters, and then makes a soft _ha!_ of triumph when the panel slides to the side, revealing a flat screen. It comes alive under his hands, the interface glowing blue and purple as he presses a few buttons. Keith’s outline coveres the view a bit, but Shiro is busy anyway.

He snorts, his broad metal palm curling around Keith’s hip. “I’ve always been handsy.”

It’s true—a hand on Keith’s shoulder, on the back of his neck, an arm slung around his shoulders or hips. His palm pressed against Keith’s lower back when they stood next to each other. He’d always found ways to touch Keith, however innocent.

Keith barely has time to say, “Okay, done,” that Shiro’s arm is pulling him and making him tumble back into bed, tugging him into Shiro’s arms.

He sits between Shiro’s legs, back against Shiro’s chest, and makes an unflattering squeaking noise when Shiro squeezes him with both arms and ducks his face into his neck. He blows a loud raspberry into it.

“Okay, okay,” Keith protests weakly, laughing breathlessly, his fingers coming to tangle with Shiro’s on his belly. “Now shut up and watch.”

It’s only the very familiar opening theme that makes him pull away from Keith’s neck.

Even after all these years, it makes his heart race and the old excitement kindle in his belly. Suddenly, he’s thirteen again, and huddled in his hospital bed with his grandfather.

“I knew you liked the original series, but I wasn’t sure you wanted the other one with Spock and Kirk, so I just downloaded them all,” Keith says, his voice wavering, only a little shy. “And the movies, too, just in case.”

“Oh my God,” he whispers, and feels Keith snuggle a little into his arms. He tightens his hold and struggles to speak past the lump in his throat. “You’re _perfect._ ”

He used to watch the original series of Star Trek on his grandfather’s old rickety laptop, when he needed a distraction from everything else. The technology, effects, and acting were all already laughably old by the time Ojiisan had been young. But that was part of the charm.

“It’s not about the special effects,” Ojiisan would say. “It’s about the adventure.”

And the show had delivered on the adventure. It had given him his dream.

To boldly go.

“ _Space_ ,” Shiro says, in time with the intro voice, his voice dropping to mimic it. Keith cackles. “ _The final frontier._ ”

“This is bad,” Keith says, five minutes in and looking at a dog with a horn glued to its forehead. “You know this is bad.”

“ _Ssh,_ ” Shiro replies, blatantly ignoring that. “You’re missing it.”

Shiro takes control right away, eager to jump ahead to his favorites. As they near the end of _the_ _Conscience of the King,_ he can feel Keith gradually give up on his skepticism and get sucked in instead.

And it is while Kirk was attempting to talk down Lieutenant Riley that Shiro speaks.

“I always wanted to be just like him,” he whispers, and presses his cheek against Keith’s, so he can’t turn around and watch Shiro bare this last part of himself. “Captain Kirk.”

He feels Keith’s cheek move with his smile. “A dashing young space captain, going around making everyone fall in love with you?”

Shiro can feel his cheeks flush. It _was_ a little like that.

He doesn’t deny it, but he adds. “Exploring new worlds. Meeting new civilizations. Running into adventure with my right-hand man at my side.”

Keith’s fingers squeeze his, and then his shoulders start to shake.

When Shiro turns to look at him, he has a hand pressed against his mouth to restrain his laughter.

“Shiro,” he gasps. “His _half-alien boyfriend._ ”

Shiro’s eyes widen, and he whispers, “Oh my God.”

His half-alien boyfriend’s peals of laughter fill the room. And no, he didn’t miss how Keith—purposefully or not—called himself that. That’s a thought for tomorrow.

He laughs into Keith’s cheek and says, “I really made it, huh?”

Keith hums, and turns to look at him with shining eyes. “Dashing, check. Young space captain, check.”

Shiro rolls his eyes, as Keith turns fully in his arms, rising on his knees and taking Shiro’s face in his hands.

“Making everyone fall in love with you?” he said, his smile receding into a soft, fond thing. “Check.”

Shiro reaches back, his hands on Keith’s hips, so slim under his fingers.

“And all the rest?”

Keith wraps his arms around Shiro’s neck, close enough now to nudge his nose against Shiro’s, pulling back and grinning when Shiro lists forwards and angles for a kiss.

“Leave that to me,” he says, and lets himself be kissed.

*

Shiro wakes up to sunlight.

The Altean sky outside glows a bright cheery blue, and the lighting in the room has automatically adjusted to fit the ambient light. The sheets are still warm on Keith’s side of the bed. Shiro rolls into it and grunts.

It’s been a while since he had the luxury of sleeping in and lingering in bed once awake. That’s the best part of it—being able to take his time. The sheets are warm and smell like Keith. His eyelids droop as he takes in the rest of the room, which is still empty and plain. They have time yet to leave their mark on it.

Last night, he made love to Keith in this bed for the first time. Twice. He grins into the pillow, eyes closed, breathing in. He feels a little silly, clutching his pillow like a smitten schoolboy. It’s a good feeling—one of the simpler ones that haven’t visited in a long time.

He gets up eventually. He finds Keith in the kitchen nook, his hair a rat’s nest, Shiro’s shirt on him and hanging off one shoulder.

Keith hears him, if the way his mouth quirks as Shiro leans against the open kitchen door is any indication. Shiro lingers there for a moment, and thinks about pressing up against Keith’s back, putting his hands on his hips.

It takes no more than a heartbeat’s hesitation for him to remember that if he wants to, he can.

So he does. Keith makes a pleased humming noise and presses back against his chest. Each one of his curves fits perfectly against Shiro’s body.

“We have no coffee,” Keith rasps, his voice still rough from sleep, and the mundanity of it strikes Shiro anew. Nothing life-changing, or universe-defying. They’re just out of coffee.

It _is_ pretty tragic, though.

Shiro makes a low groaning noise, his face in Keith’s hair. He kisses Keith’s temple and slips a hand under Keith’s shirt to feel sleep-warm skin.

“ _No._ ”

“Yes,” Keith says. He’s sifting a strange purple powder into two mugs. “This is an Altean tea Coran recommended once—kind of like matcha, but… nothing like matcha, I guess. I don’t know if you make it like this, but I had no other ideas. I made it with Hunk once, and there were no ill side-effects. It should do.”

He pours hot water in, whisking until it’s frothy. He hands a cup to Shiro and watches as Shiro squints at it and takes a careful sip.

It’s somehow bitter, sweet, and fruity all at once—the taste throws him off massively. He realizes the purple had led him to expect berries, but that’s not what he gets at all.

“It’s like—”

“Weird, right?”

“Like banana and—pear? Mango?”

“I’d have said peach.”

“Mh,” Shiro hums, and takes another sip. “It’s not that bad.”

“Well, it’s a psychoactive stimulant, so until we can get coffee, that’s the best we got. I think we still have a stash at my Mom’s, from the last time it got imported to Daibazaal.”

“Sounds good.”

Shiro puts the mug down, and puts both his hands on Keith’s hips. He feels the way Keith’s breath hitches so faintly—almost too quiet to hear.

He turns Keith around gently, and Keith looks up at him from under his lashes as he ducks into his own mug. The mischievous glint in them is a challenge.

Shiro takes his mug too. He puts it down next to his own, then puts both hands on the counter, caging Keith in.

“No good morning kiss?”

Keith tries to stay impassive but Shiro spies the smile trying to curl the corner of his mouth. He looks down, making a show of hesitating and avoiding Shiro’s eyes. Shiro tips his chin up slowly until Keith’s dark lashes flutter, and he’s looking right up at Shiro and grinning.

He pulls back, hops up to sit on the counter, and wraps his legs around Shiro’s hips to pull him in. The first kiss is slow, a lingering press of lips. Keith’s arms wrap around his shoulders, and Shiro feels the short, soft hair on his thighs under his fingers. Then Keith bites his bottom lip, turns the kiss a little wet, a little dirty. He tastes like alien tea, and he’s warm and pliant under Shiro’s hands. Perfect.

“Good _morning_ ,” Keith gasps, as Shiro trails kisses down to the underside of his jaw, where he bites gently. “We need to be out of here soon, if we want to beat the morning rush.”

Shiro’s hand has caught a handful of Keith’s ass, kneading gently, and he’s unwilling to stop sucking a mark where Keith’s jaw meets his neck. His other hand wanders up Keith’s thigh, and down, and back again. He feels the shiver that runs through Keith’s body and makes his thighs tighten around his hips.

“I’m serious—there’s always such, _ah_ , such a long fucking line to the wormhole.”

Shiro hums, and pulls away a little mournfully. His pout makes Keith snicker and give him a biting, playful kiss. His nails scratch at the back of Shiro’s neck.

“Fine,” Shiro says. He pats Keith’s thigh. “Let’s get going.”

They make quick work of putting on their flight suits. The cockpit is small, busy, full of blinking lights and screens. It’s a little less intuitive than the lions, which always seemed to work half on magic, half on technology. But both of them are professionals, and Shiro has yet to meet a ship Keith couldn’t master.

While Keith performs pre-flight checks, Shiro swipes through their paperwork, which they really should have done earlier. He can almost hear Veronica’s disapproval from a galaxy away.

He hesitates.

“Who should be the registered Captain?”

Keith looks at him sideways, like Shiro is not making any sense.

“You’re the Captain.”

Shiro tilts his head. “I don’t have to be.”

Keith plops back down into his seat. “Of course you do. ‘Cause I have to be the pilot.”

Shiro laughs. He should have known Keith would make it easy, like it is.

Keith leans over the armrests and inch or so of space dividing their seats. He peers over Shiro’s shoulder.

“What to name the ship—that’s a bigger question.”

Shiro muses over it for a long moment. He thinks about the ship, and what it means to him, and what he wants it to be.

For a long time, he’d wanted two things, and thought them to be separate. He’d wanted love, a family, a home. And he’d wanted to go out into space. And he’d thought to have one he’d have to sacrifice the other.

He thinks about their bed, in its little alcove, and the sight of Keith’s dark hair spilling over the pillows.

Never had he dreamed he could have both at once.

He types the name into the assigned space, and tilts the datapad towards Keith. A smile passes over his face, and then he rolls his eyes.

“Nerd,” Keith says. Then slides his helmet on.

“You got the reference,” Shiro says. Then, “Where to first?”

“Daibazaal,” Keith says, with no hesitation. “We need Kosmo and coffee.”

“Fine.” Shiro catches Keith’s hand before he can lay it on the controls, and presses a quick kiss to his fingers. “Take it away, sweetheart.”

There _is_ a line at the wormhole, which Keith complains about. It’s not even nearly as bad as Shiro thought. The wormhole station hails them, the light blinking on their comms line. Shiro opens the line.

“Identification, please.”

Shiro submits their documents, and then speaks into the comms.

“This is the SS Hestia, requesting passage to Daibazaal.”  


**Author's Note:**

> As a very brief note, prouvairing and foxglovebrew are both me! Foxglovebrew is my Sheith side account.
> 
> I'm also vaguely planning to participate in the [Sheith New Year Event](https://sheithnewyear.tumblr.com/post/181150364136/sheith-new-year-hey-were-planning-a-week-from) by writing some quick one-shots in this continuity, if any of you are interested.
> 
> If you want to share the fic, please [reblog](https://foxglovebrew.tumblr.com/post/181586440681/the-voice-from-the-stars-sheith-rated-m-s8) and/or [retweet](https://twitter.com/seagreen_eyes/status/1079787601794617347).
> 
> Please come talk to me if you, too, like both Shiro and Star Trek and Shiro liking Star Trek. And also let me know if you, too, are a Greek myth nerd like me (and Shiro) and caught the ship name reference.
> 
> Keep hanging in there, everyone.


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